Page 78 of Royal Deception
My throat tightens. I know my body is changing. I shouldn’t feel self-conscious about it. But I do.
What if Rory notices? What if he says something?
I shake my head, willing the doubts away. He invited me on this date. He wants to see me. That has to count for something.
Taking one last deep breath, I grab my coat and my purse, forcing myself to focus on the night ahead. No second-guessing. No overthinking. Just… seeing where this takes me.
The drive is long enough for my nerves to settle into something softer, curiosity replacing the sharp-edged anxiety that had followed me out the door. Rory’s being surprisinglysecretive about where we’re going, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth whenever I press for answers.
When we finally pull up to the stable, my breath catches. The sight of the horses, the sprawling green fields just beyond, the way the setting sun paints everything in a golden hue—it feels like something out of a dream.
“You ever been riding before?” Rory asks, stepping around to open my door.
I shake my head, still taking it all in. “No, never.”
His smirk turns pleased, like he’s proud to be the one introducing me to this. “Then you’re in for a treat.”
As we approach the horses, my excitement grows. It’s quiet here, peaceful in a way I hadn’t realized I needed. There’s no city noise, no distractions—just the rhythmic sounds of hooves against the dirt, the crisp air, and Rory standing close enough that I can feel the warmth of him at my side.
I remind myself of why I’m here.
I like him, a lot, but I can’t let myself get caught up in this until he proves he’s changed. Until he apologizes.
Rory helps me onto the horse, his hands settling on my waist. His touch is steady, careful, but he lingers just a second too long. His grip is firm but gentle, and when I glance down, he’s still looking at me. Not in a way that makes my stomach drop, but in that slightly puzzled, head-tilted way, like he’s noticing something but hasn’t quite put his finger on it yet.
My breath hitches for half a second before I force myself to look away.
Shit. Can he tell?
But just as quickly as the thought comes, I shove it aside. There’s no way. He’s been remarkably unobservant about all my symptoms so far.
The ride through the forest is nothing short of magical. The crisp air, the gentle sway of the horse beneath me, the way thelate afternoon sunlight filters through the trees—it all feels like something out of a dream. I hate how much I love it, how much I love this.
By the time we reach the clearing near the stream, Rory hops off his horse first and strides over to mine, offering me his hands to help me down. I hesitate for a fraction of a second, but I let him. His touch is steady, warm, and for just a breath, his hands linger at my waist again before he steps back.
“Perfect spot, huh?” he asks, gesturing toward the quiet little clearing.
I have to admit, it is beautiful. The stream babbles softly, the leaves rustle in the wind, and the air smells fresh, clean. Rory leads me toward a soft patch of grass where he starts setting up the picnic, but as I settle down, I notice something.
He keeps checking his phone.
The glow of the screen illuminates his face every few minutes, his brows drawn together in a way that’s subtle but telling. It’s like he’s trying not to let it show, but it’s bothering him.
Finally, I sigh and cross my arms. “You know, for a guy who set all this up, you’re awfully distracted.”
He looks up at me, caught in the act. His jaw tightens for a second before he exhales, locking his phone and setting it face down on the blanket. “I know. I’m sorry.”
I raise a brow.
He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “There’s… some trouble with the Russians. But it can wait.” His gaze flickers over my face, and then he shakes his head as if dismissing it entirely. “This is more important.”
Something about the way he says it, the quiet intensity in his voice, makes my breath catch for just a moment.
Then, as if determined to shift the mood, he reaches for the picnic basket and flips open the lid. “Now, let’s see what we’ve got here.”
He starts pulling out food—cheeses, crackers, grapes, little sandwiches—and then a bottle of wine. He holds it up with a smirk. “Figured we could toast to new beginnings.”
My stomach twists, but I force a small smile. “That’s sweet, but I’ll pass on the wine.”
